solo

The moment she smiled over her tea cup, her shoes didn’t seem so tacky.

“All poetry is a cop-out,” she said.

And then my mind was crowded, the cells perspired and pressed against my consciousness. This was what happened. It wasn’t poetic or anything.

It was just that everyone in this cafe was conspiring for us to connect. In fact I could see a man standing in a dry field, perhaps somewhere across the street, his head bowed in prayer, wishing for the moment of spiritual contact between us. The whole universe must want it, I thought. Again, not poetic.

“You could make a poem mean anything. It doesn’t require a particular amount of intellectual might. That poem about the wheel barrow. You remember that one from high school? It was a freakin’ wheel barrow. Why do we have to assign this great political meaning to it?”

“I suppose you’re referring to modern poetry, then,” I said. “Because classical poetry is more specific, right?”

“Well, yes. Modern. Abstract.”

“Well… there are some, I suppose, who find its very ambiguous nature to be its most compelling aspect. Modern poetry is a kind of canvas –“

“An unfinished canvas.”

“…Right, exactly, an unfinished canvas, and we are to interpret, or project –“

“Whatever you feel like interpreting or projecting.” Her folded hands relaxed on the table in front of her.

Satisfied with herself.

“I take it you also do not like modern art,” I said.

“ No, I do. Modern art is… well, it’s-“

“Clean?”

“Well, maybe. I can’t say why I like it necessarily. But I wouldn't say it's that simple.”

My legs crossed, I pointed my foot toward her and said, “A Mark Rothko is not just blocks of color. It is the same open canvas. It may be a statement about form and color, but there may also be an explosive emotional component, just waiting to be extracted.”

Her pupils dilated. Her fingers now embraced a button on the coat in her lap.

Steady…

I sat back an inch or so in my chair. “If anything, you could assign a great political meaning to the paintings of someone like this one guy, this classical painter, John Singer Sargent. He was very famous. They were just portraits. Just portraits of rich people, which he was commissioned to do, which were understood to glorify their subjects.”

Match point?

Her consciousness broadened suddenly, which is to say, it closed slightly. She looked around the cafe and seemed more aware of the other patrons. She had been aware this entire time that she was a female, but at that moment came the awareness that I was of this gender as well. What did we look like, the two of us, sitting here? Both of us wondered. She looked toward the door.

I put the lid on my cup. I didn’t particularly care that she didn’t like modern poetry. But I wanted her eyes. A poet from any time period would have understood how much this was needed.

I excused myself and rose to leave. She turned her body toward me and her hand touched her necklace. Would she see me next Saturday? I told her I wasn't sure. I might not be in town.

And I left it like that and I walked out of the cafe. As I leave all things, unsure, unfastened. My walk became more deliberate as I reached the sidewalk. Each tree on this street knew me by two things: the strength of my feet in feminine shoes and my solitude.

There were times when I walked on this street imagining someone beside me. I would think of witty banter between my guest companion and me involving various objects in the neighborhood. Sometimes I would look at my phone. Sometimes there was confident eye contact with passers by; sometimes a hiding behind sunglasses. Why are people always so monotone in lamenting solitude, as if there is only one kind? On that street, on every block, in every square of sidewalk, I experienced every type of alone. Some frightening - I would always be alone - and some relieving. It was good to be able to be alone with oneself - which was a healthy and rational thought. And on this street, there were no reflective surfaces.

I was alone right up to my front door. It's like that moment when you're looking for a poem in your head - finding that exact landscape where you connect with someone else. I forgave her now for looking away. But she would never know. I opened the door and submitted myself to the next reality.

meditation on reformation

We know that the universe is expanding, creating room for an ever-evolving plane of energy and ideas. There is room to reconsider, to occupy space in new ways. Evolution of all sorts is frequently the nucleus of my ponderings. I have gone through deep periods of self-reflection that sometimes seem to be circular in nature. Sometimes I wonder what I've accomplished. But my instinct always tells me to look at the bigger picture, which then forces me to look outside of myself. This seems to be a cornerstone of any type of growth.


Consider Martin Luther. Luther stood up for the liberty of conscience. In the centuries before him, Christian churches began the long tradition of corporations inserting themselves between us and the things that we want. Effectively, you could pay for your salvation. Effectively, the church controlled your education (or lack thereof), your very way of life. Martin Luther was one of the first figures in modern history to stand up against that system.

There never was a more devoted or guilt-ridden monk. Estranged from his father and in need of security, ML was lost in a cycle of repentance and aspiring for salvation. He never would be good enough. He denied himself any simple pleasures, and even some necessities. Only the most barren existence would be proof enough of his dedication to understanding and being worthy of God. He was truly psychologically disturbed, as are most of us. Even those of us who aren't religious can identify with this personal mental anguish and preoccupation with the battle for self-actualization. For God was just a red herring; what Martin Luther struggled with was his own reflection.

The inciting incident which pulled ML out of this struggle was being given a job as a professor of bible studies at a new university. It was a staggering amount of work, an almost impossible amount of material to digest, and he was now tasked with imparting the meaning of the texts with those who were fortunate enough to come and learn. And here was the key turning point of his life: he became immediately present to the spiritual concerns of others rather than his own. He became witness to the tribulations and questions that arose on the spiritual journeys of his pupils. Intimate with these matters as he was, two important things happened: firstly, he began to care emotionally about the souls of others, and secondly, he saw patterns within individual spiritual expeditions.

It was only then, when ML came out of himself, that he was able to be himself. He amassed a great deal of pure knowledge and recognized the dishonesty of the institution of the Church.

The way I see it, in this very way we can each have our own personal Reformation. A man like ML, who had been so hard on himself, thought so little of himself, changed history by standing up for something which had political implications reaching far beyond the religious matters over which he so agonizingly toiled.

Of course, he would eventually turn on the revolutionaries he inspired and would remain an anti-Semite. They took it too far, in his view - farther than he had taken things in his own mind. And he was not able to accept radical new ideas of those younger than he.

But that is how evolutions and revolutions work. One generation identifies the cognitive dissonance of a particular tyranny, then the next breaks down broader tyrannies. Just as a parent's generation wins a war against a looming murderous regime, the child's generation wins a war against a more intimate oppression of spirit.

I've worked all of my life to free myself of these things. The micro of my experience is reflected in the macro of history. If I could not trace these things, there would be no meaning. And this is why I write. This is why anyone should continue on. If we try, in time we reveal new freedoms.

ars gratia artis

Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue has long been one of my favorite works of music.

I was therefore nothing short of euphoric when it was used in Fantasia 2 a few years back. Well, OK, 9 years back! Anyway, I adore the way they handled it. It is very Al Hirschfeld, very mid-century, and pretty much embodies so many things I love.

Part I



Part II

casablanca

This is one of those movies that I watched as a teenager, then had to re-watch in order to get how wonderful it is.

The most remarkable thing is the writing - there is not one scene in this movie that doesn't contain a total zinger. It's smart, a little off, a little poetic, and totally romantic in a real way.

Watch it again if you haven't seen it in a while! Imagine yourself in the clothes, in the cars, drinking the drinks, and having the kind of awesome sexuality it takes to create something like this. Yum.

the record

Don't you hate it when you are looking for something and you end up going back and reading old emails? Old as in 10 years ago? And then you can't stop and you just keep reading all these back and forths about things that meant so much at the time? And you keep going up through the years?

Yeah.

I got stuck for about two hours last night doing just that. And I was already a bit emotional. But the amazing thing to me is how much we forget. OK, how much I forget. Did I really feel such a deep sense of urgency in that situation? Wow, I sent that person a package? Did we really meet for dinner that night? Did those two break up that long ago? I forgot that she knew him so well.

These things get lost. But I am glad to have a partial fossil record, knowing which paths crossed when. What some of my personal issues were and even a track record of my varying levels of communication with people I care about. There are some people that have been lost, and I feel that loss more now that I remember so acutely where we used to be.

Evolution happens so slowly. In the spiral of time it is hard to see down to the bottom and know the particles that began your life. We must document. Love love fear fear fear love love fear love. This is the binary code of longing and retreat. These are the benchmarks that fill the event log. We are beholden to time.

are you threatening me?

Today I realize that this







Leads directly to

it's not my fault that this is funny